


One Year Gone

by Deleady



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, i dont know how I managed to write something without sex, smut free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 04:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11959761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deleady/pseuds/Deleady
Summary: ONE-SHOT. slight John/Sherlock. A year after the fall John can't take it anymore and decides to end his life, but will he be allowed to die?





	One Year Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This was on my fanfiction.net account but honestly AO3 is my preferred website also in the process of moving it over I made it better and fixed some grammatical errors.

John lasted a full year of barely eating, nightmares, working and spending his weekends at Sherlock's grave before he cracked. Every second was agony and the black hole of misery in his stomach was constantly growing and contaminating all thoughts and actions until it took all his effort just to crawl out of his bed. He decided that his existence was just pointless without that amazing man, and with a heart full of pain, and a mind determined to do what he needed he decided to take his life. All he took was his gun and one of Sherlock's scarves to Sherlock's gravesite where he planned to finally join the man who had made his life worth living.

John leant against the gravestone, the gun on top of the massive marble stone and the scarf around his neck. As he watched the sun set for what he believed would be the last time John decided it was time. He felt neither hesitation nor fear, and he lifted the gun up under his chin, took a deep and last breath, and pulled the trigger. _Click_. Frowning in confusion John opened the barrel of the gun to find the previously loaded Webley devoid of any bullets.

John stood up, grabbing his cane that was constantly by his side now that the limp had returned and turning around; there was absolutely no movement except for the sway of the giant trunked trees' many dangling branches. He sighed in frustration, _maybe he was going mad and had only thought he had loaded the gun? What if there had been someone else in the graveyard with him that had stolen the bullets? But why would they only take the bullets for, when they could just grab the whole gun? Sherlock would have known_ , and with that thought he slumped down again, tears welling up and spilling haphazardly down his face while he took shaky breaths. This was too much, why couldn't he just die? Sherlock had died and he was the most brilliant man on the planet, John was just an invalid army doctor who was purposeless and almost destitute, he didn't matter. Not like Sherlock had, John felt like the universe had _needed_ Sherlock. Lord knows Scotland Yard and John had. 

The next day he decided that he would go the way Sherlock did, off the top of St Bart's. He'd often wondered what Sherlock's last moments free falling through the air and watching the concrete get closer had felt like, well now he was going to get to know. He wore a simple shirt and jeans, his face passive as he stood near the edge of the building getting ready to jump. His cane was discarded on the ground, and looking out at the city alive and thriving around him, he brushed his hand against the note in his pocket which simply said

_I can't live without him._

_John W_

It was short, yet it was all he knew, that existence without Sherlock was pointless. He stepped up onto the ledge and spreading his arms out began to tip forward, eyes closed and the name 'Sherlock' on his lips. He was almost over the edge when he was forcefully pulled back, so forcefully that he and his supposed 'savior' fell on top of each other, John on top of this tall stranger with his back pressed against their chest. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he said with barely any venom. He had become as emotionless as Sherlock used to act after the other mans death. John started to crawl desperately to the edge while the unknown person behind him got their breath back; he was suddenly being dragged by his foot to the middle of the roof. He stood and turned around to abuse the guy "Can't you just let me…" he trailed off, for there, right in front of him, was Sherlock, wearing his same old coat and what appeared to be a concerned look on his face. "How…What..?" he stepped closer to him and reached out to touch him, before reconsidering it and pulling his fist back and punching him in the face.

Sherlock staggered back a few paces and brought his hand up to his face, "How could you? I thought you were dead Sherlock! Dead!" he felt hot tears trail down his face as he took a step towards Sherlock as he shouted, it didn't make sense, he'd seen Sherlock fall and seen his corpse be carted off. "I got too big, too noisy; I had to step back into the shadows for a while." Sherlock said as way of explaination and wrapped John up in a tight embrace "I am here, I did not die."

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/  
Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.  
I am not there; I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn's rain.  
When you awaken in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.  
I am not there. I did not die.

\- Mary Elizabeth Frye


End file.
